Everybody in our valley is talking about it: harvest is coming. Almost, almost, quasi, quasi. Daily checking the trees as if they are caring for children with a fever. And then Roeland is mowing the big field on the hill and he discovers that the top trees are ready. It’s showtime.
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He knows me too well
“Do you know how to connect the wells?” my husband says. “No.” “You have to know this. Come here, I’ll explain it.” I look down in…
A party under the oak
Yes, we’re married but we never threw a fuck-off party. Maybe now is the time to start with ours. Preferably under the 300-year-old oak.
Eve picked the apple, I’m going for the olive
Eve picked the apple, I’m going for the olive. Her picking led to misery, my picking leads to 100% pure olive oil. Made of handpicked olives…